


Fixed in Amber

by cynical21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A twist of fate rewrites what might have been, and a Jedi Master relearns the meaning of true loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixed in Amber

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the Star Wars universe is the intellectual property of Master Lucas, and everything I write within it is an homage to his genius.
> 
> And, just in case I haven't made it clear enough, Disney it NEVER is.

Fixed in Amber 

Time, they say, is a spring-fed stream  
That kneads the texture of our lives,  
That blends and twists our memories,  
Upon a tide that passion drives;  
But time, I say, is more a strand  
Of lustrous pearls, slipped loosely strung.  
Upon a thread of happenstance,  
And on a thorn of whimsy, hung. 

But Time stepped out of line for you,  
And swept you toward a separate place,  
Leaving us with bitter truths,  
Reflections of your smiling face;  
The man that you were meant to be  
Will surely never come to pass,  
Your life that should have been, long gone  
Where broken dreams now dwell, en masse. 

One golden moment now recalled,  
The ghost of what you were to me,  
The promise of pale yesterdays,  
The sweet repose of reverie,  
Within the frame of words not said,  
Fixed in amber grains of light,  
I see what I could not see then.  
Too late; too far. Now comes the night. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Sanctuary Moon, in elliptic orbit around the mammoth sphere of Coruscant, was the kind of place that could spawn daydreams and idyllic fantasies in the minds of young men with a predilection for romance. 

Not that Obi-Wan Kenobi would ever actually admit that he had such a tendency. Jedi padawans, after all, were expected to be models of common sense and level-headed pragmatism. Ideally, the urge to suspend disbelief and indulge in a weakness for woolgathering had been consigned to the dusty cupboards of childhood whimsy by the time the apprentice had reached senior status, having achieved the age of majority for his species. This was particularly to be desired when the woolgathering in question tended to be the kind that inevitably featured shapely damsels in distress, draped in clinging veils of translucent silk, swooning in the arms of noble knights riding to their rescue. 

For young Kenobi, that transition - junior to senior - had come only recently, and he was still a little too fresh, too raw, to be entirely comfortable with allowing himself an occasional lapse. His birthday had come just sixteen days before, and his elevation to senior status had been automatic, given there was no one to oppose it, but, under the circumstances, there had been no ritual - no formal recognition of the promotion - and it still felt a bit uncomfortable for him. 

He kept thinking that he should _feel_ something. It was a major accomplishment in the life of a young Jedi, a place in which one could stand and look back and take some measure of satisfaction in having made it half-way through the path to knighthood. Of course, one must also turn and look ahead and recall that the second half of the journey was almost certainly going to be much more difficult to navigate than the first - harsher, more demanding, filled with greater perils and bigger obstacles, and, in the end, forming the crucible which would either forge the raw materials of knighthood or discover the fatal flaw that would forever make that goal impossible. 

But, try as he would, he couldn't feel anything, and, deep within him, something whispered that he knew perfectly well why that should be. 

He was a senior padawan - by default. 

He had been promoted, because no one spoke up to protest the routine transition. 

There had been no rite of passage; there had barely been an acknowledgement. A message on the com-station in his quarters, informing him of new responsibilities inherent in his new rank, and a handful of new privileges, few of which he would ever choose to use: a later curfew; the right to enroll in certain seniors' seminars; access to areas of the archives previously unavailable to him; admittance to some of the private gardens on the Masters' restricted level for meditation, and to the spa areas located near the training salles preferred by knight/padawan teams; a transport pass in his own name, to enable him to engage public transport anywhere on Coruscant; and - oh, yes - the right to claim his crystal beads. 

Beyond that, there had only been the impersonal, form letter, generated by the Temple's information system, expressing the congratulations of the Council and associated staff members. 

He told himself that it was an exceptionally hectic time for the Jedi; that there were uprisings and border disputes, famines and plagues, disasters - natural and un- a plethora of causes and crises, all requiring Jedi intervention or mediation. 

And it was all true, but it explained nothing within the confines of his heart where there were no sufficient explanations. 

His friends had tried, of course, to make it an occasion worthy of remembering, but even the most enthusiastic of them had known that it was, ultimately, just a sham, a pale shadow of what such a celebration should have been. 

On that memorable night - the occasion of his eighteenth birthday - he had risen from the table in the dingy little club where padawans traditionally marked such events, thanked his friends for their efforts, while ignoring the hollow looks in their eyes that spoke of wanting to offer comfort, but not knowing how, taken a moment to embrace Bant and Ciara and Garen, acknowledging their sweet sorrow with a solemn smile, and said good night, using the excuse of an early-morning assignment. He had then gone back to his quarters, where he had seated himself at his Master's desk, telling himself that it was mere coincidence that the com-unit was sitting within easy reach. 

Throughout that day, he had maintained heavy shielding, a situation that was becoming more and more customary for him, for he knew that, should his Master be involved in delicate negotiations - or life-and-death struggles - any distraction could be disastrous. That, at least, was the reason with which he consoled himself. 

Qui-Gon was somewhere in the mountainous region of Dubrillion's southern continent, attempting to negotiate the release of a group of medical researchers being held hostage by the followers of a religious fanatic with, according to Master Jinn's first - and only - mission report, delusions of godhood. The situation had been deemed volatile and incredibly risky, even for Jedi, and the planetary government had balked at allowing a Master/padawan team to attempt to find a resolution for the problem. The Minister of Civil Order had pointed out - with a certain logic, though Obi-Wan hated admitting it - that the religious group involved practiced a radical caste system which would have classified Obi-Wan as a child, and interpreted his presence on the mission as an insult. 

On learning of this, the apprentice had expected his Master to refuse the mission; when Qui-Gon had, instead, accepted with alacrity and a smile that he had not quite managed to hide before Obi-Wan saw it, the padawan had behaved as he was expected to behave. Superficially, he had accepted the judgment of his Master and the Council, quietly helped Qui-Gon pack and prepare for his mission and accompanied him to the docking bay where a transport awaited, extended the traditional Force blessing while noting that Qui-Gon was fairly bouncing with impatience to be underway, and, after watching the vessel's departure - looking up into the crowded sky above Coruscant long after the ship had vanished from his view - he had gone back to their shared quarters, echoing with an emptiness that mirrored that in his heart, locked himself in his room, and wept for all that he had lost, all beneath shielding impervious to any but the most determined, most focused, Master-level probing, of which there had - of course - been none. 

It had been more than two years now - two long, grim years - since Master Tahl had been killed; since life, as he had known it, had twisted around on itself and left him in a place he no longer recognized, standing at the side of a man who had become a stranger. 

He had believed, during those years when Tahl had been a part of their lives, that Qui-Gon had come to care for him, care deeply, care almost as much as he, himself, cared for his Master. And maybe, on some level, he had even been right, but, if so, it was a level Qui-Gon could no longer reach. 

Tahl had not died alone; something within the man who had loved her so much had died with her, and what was left no longer remembered how to love anyone. 

For a time, Obi-Wan had believed that patience and faith would resolve the difficulty; that time really would heal all wounds, but he had slowly come to realize that his hopes had been foolish, and his faith, based on a false premise. He had believed that he could, in some way, fill the emptiness that Tahl's death had left in his Master's heart; now he knew better. 

The bond that existed between them was still active, but it was a training bond - nothing more. It allowed Qui-Gon to continue to teach him, to monitor his progress in the Jedi arts, to fight at his side and defend him, if necessary; to sense his presence and his physical or emotional state, should he choose to do so; to function as a partner in the disciplines required to escort the padawan to his knighting. It functioned, but it was cold - unfeeling - barren. 

Obi-Wan had long ago stopped speculating on what response he would receive if he simply dropped his mental barriers, and opened himself to the scrutiny of his mentor's mind. He had stopped speculating, because he suspected that he already knew the answer, and he was not quite sure that he could face that ultimate evidence of the damaged nature of what had once been so special between them. He thought of such an action as opening a door and issuing an invitation, and he rationalized that, if the door remained closed, he would not be forced to admit that the invitation . . . would be ignored. 

He had remained at the desk on the occasion of his coming of age, and tried to work on a string theory analysis for his quantum physics class, but he had been distracted and unable to concentrate. Twice in the course of the evening, he had run diagnostics on the com-unit, just to be sure it was functional. Which it was, of course. Functional - and silent. 

He had awakened there the next morning, with an aching back and an aching heart. 

The one he had managed to assuage with a bit of exercise and an analgesic. 

The other, he thought, would stay with him for a very long time. 

He sat now, on a marble-veined promontory, looking out across a jade and emerald ravine, to where a massive plume of rushing water plunged from the granite face of a jagged peak, breaking itself against a parapet of huge boulders, to split from one overwhelming deluge to five distinct, separate cascades, falling away into a cauldron of force a thousand meters below. Above the range of peaks and forest, the sky stretched, cloudless to the horizon, the exact color of the protolilacs that swathed the hills of Alderaan in lavender drifts in the first rush of spring. The air was rich with a mist so thick it intercepted the rose-tinted radiance of morning and spread it in a layer of luminescence, and it was like breathing light, as he inhaled deeply, and grasped his braid lightly. 

Few places in the galaxy were so beautiful, and he found the loveliness soothing, as few things had been in recent years. It had been his fondness for this place - the ancient Jedi retreat, and the vast grounds of the wilderness preserve around it - that had convinced him to accept Master Yoda's recommendation that he volunteer to accompany the crèchelings on their annual visit to this wonderful place, so rich and full and strong in the Living Force. He was forced to concede that it had been a good trip. He had come to believe that nothing would ever completely ease his anguish over the loss of the relationship he had once shared with his Master, but he had accepted that he must continue to seek joy in other things. Otherwise, his life, even in service to the Jedi, would be filled with futility and, eventually, bitterness. 

He looked around again, marveling that the knighthood had been so successful in preserving the pristine quality of this refuge, especially in light of the fact that so much of the moon had been developed in recent years. Just beyond the ridge that formed the horizon off to his left, there was an exclusive resort area and a housing development that catered to the wealthiest members of Republic society - the commercial barons and higher-ranking members of the Senate. Even the Supreme Chancellor had a residence there, a place where the most powerful man in the galaxy could retreat from prying eyes and find some measure of anonymity. But here, there was nothing but life in its most primitive state, and the Force sang with the purity of it. 

Obi-Wan sighed, still tugging at his braid, a habit that had, over the years, driven his Master to distraction, but even the legendary Qui-Gon Jinn was forced, on occasion, to bow to the inevitable; Obi-Wan would play with that braid until the day it was severed. 

There were no crystal beads worked into this most personal badge of his station, for this was the mark of passage that he could not bring himself to claim on his own. Tradition decreed that the two quartz beads, tinted with the hues of smoke and fire, should be worked into the padawan's braid by his own Master, as ritual words were spoken by both parties. 

He had the beads; they were presently residing in a small cup atop his bureau in his bedroom at the Temple. By law and tradition, he had the right to wear them, but he had found that the thought of wearing them meant nothing unless they were worked into his hair by the massive hands that had molded and guided him through all his life. 

He gazed out across the chasm, watching scraps of rainbow rise and dissolve in the mist, and allowed himself to touch the training bond; he was careful to keep the touch light, unintrusive, but it was sufficient to tell him that the message he had received from the Temple's communication service had been correct. 

Qui-Gon was coming home. After almost three lunar cycles, he was returning to the Temple, to arrive in about ten days, depending on the speed and reliability of his transport. In ten days, in the quarters that had been so lifeless, so silent, for so long, the door would open, and the rooms would be filled with the vitality of his presence, something that, somehow, had never dimmed, even in the deepest chasms of his grief. 

Obi-Wan would be surrounded once more by the life force of his Master. 

It had been much too long, and he felt a flush stain his face as he realized how needy he had become. Qui-Gon would be as he had been before he left - self-contained, quiet, serene, remote - but he would, at least, be present, in body if not in mind and heart. 

It was not enough, but it would have to do. 

In the meantime, he was here on the Sanctuary Moon, one of his favorite places in the entire galaxy, and the day was young and beautiful. And he had even managed to steal a few moments for himself. 

He supposed he should have felt guilty; he had, after all, pretty much abandoned Ciara and Garen to deal with the crechelings, but, somehow, he didn't think they'd mind so much. Both of them - singly and together - had tried to talk to him since the debacle of his birthday, to offer solace and comfort, or, more often, just to remind him that he was loved, and he was confident that neither would begrudge him this brief period of solitude. 

A sketch pad was open on his knees, a fistful of oil pastels clutched in one hand, as he reveled in the pearlescent quality of the light that clung to everything around him. He opened the pad, for once not lingering over page after page of sketches of a rough visage, or a singular feature, a rugged profile or a strong, calloused hand, turning instead to a blank sheet, and roughing in the lines and primitive angles of the precipice before him with remarkable precision. It was a matter of moments only before the drawing began to come alive under his skilled fingers. 

Fortunately, he was quick, for, as it turned out, his ploy to steal a bit of time for himself was not quite as successful as he had believed. 

The voice that rang out across the valley was bright and sharp. "D'rilla, come down from there, right now!" 

Uh, oh. This was not good. 

"D'rilla, you're in so much trouble. If you don't get down here now . . ." 

Obi-Wan winced, wondering if Ciara had forgotten the last time she had threatened the Iegan with dire consequences. 

A melodic, silvery laugh was the only response, and Obi-Wan dropped his sketching material and went racing toward the cliff edge off to his left. His Force senses were shrieking, guiding him to an area where a sheer drop-off plummeted toward a series of broken ledges that stepped down the side of the cliff. 

"D'rilla . . ." 

"Ciara," he shouted abruptly, "stop. She's too close to the edge. She's . . ." 

" _She_ ," came the loud, irritated response, "can fly, which is more than I can say for . . ." 

"She can," he allowed, "but not all that well, and it's a long drop. Stop screeching and . . ." 

"Screeching? _Screeching?_ " 

Obi-Wan winced, regretting the poor choice of words, which he would certainly pay for, for the foreseeable future. 

"Just be quiet, and let me . . ." 

The next remark was dripping with sarcasm, and he thought it was probably just as well that the mist hovering over the mountains kept him from seeing her face. "By all means, you little snot. Why don't you just . . . coo at her, and she'll probably wet her pants to get her claws on you?" 

"Ciara," he replied, with what he thought was perfect logic, "she's three years old, and she's Iegan. I got nothing she wants - trust me." 

The pause that followed was pregnant with impatience. "Sometimes," came the answer, "you are such a fool." 

At that moment, Obi-Wan broke into an area of relative clarity, at the very edge of the broken cliff face, just in time to see the exquisitely lovely little Iegan, with eyes the color of Almarian violets, skin like pale honey, and a cap of russet feathers, extend her exquisite translucent wings, brilliant as stained glass, and throw herself off the edge. 

"What happened to the wing clips?" he shouted, throwing himself down a steep, rough gradient that might have qualified as a path - for a six-legged lizard. 

"She managed to take them off," Ciara replied, visible as she leaned over the cliff edge, all levity forgotten now as fear tore through her system, like flash fire, as she watched the Iegan toddler spin and wheel in the grips of an updraft. "Obi-Wan, she can't control . . ." 

"No," he called back, beginning to slide through loose shale, trying to control his descent while keeping one eye on the child, "so we have to do it for her. I'm going to get under her - to lift - but I need you to steady her, until I get in position." 

"I don't think I can," she replied, and he could hear the beginnings of panic in her voice. Levitating and controlling an inanimate object in a neutral environment was an entirely different matter from trying to retrieve a living, mobile creature, subject to the whims of physical influences. 

"Yes, you can," he answered, shouting now. "I can't grab her and keep my footing in this crap, and if I fall, she falls. You _must_ do it, Chi. I know you can do it. Just for a minute. One minute, and I . . ." 

"Oh, just shut up," she snapped. "I'll do it, but I want you to know that I know when I'm being manipulated. I _always_ know." 

"Of course, you do," he muttered, adding a Huttish curse or two as he grabbed for a handhold as a spate of loose stone shifted under his feet, and felt something slice deep into his palm. Off to his right, only vaguely visible through roiling mist, he heard the Iegan girl erupt with bright laughter, her rapid plunge slowing to a gentle spin, as Ciara manipulated the incredible power of the Force to encircle the child with invisible loving arms. 

Noting with a detached thought that the laceration in his hand was pumping blood at an alarming rate, Obi-Wan stretched out with his Force sense to gauge the landscape beneath him, and pushed off against the cliff face, propelling himself toward a narrow ledge opening up a few meters below. He landed hard, having misjudged the distance slightly, and felt another shard of stone gouge deep into one knee. Nevertheless, he murmured a quick thank you to the Force, as he turned to focus on the child above him. She was still falling, but in the manner of a feather caught in an eddy of air - softly, gently, slowly, and when she saw him below her, she favored him with a breathtaking smile. 

"You ready, Chi?" He spoke softly, propelling the message through the Force, to avoid startling the little girl. 

"Ready," she answered, in the same fashion, but he could hear the strain in her tone. 

He closed his eyes, took a moment to focus, raised his hands - and _pushed._ The child squealed with delight and accelerated upwards at a steady, stable rate. 

"Got her!" 

That was Garen, and it was a plain old victory shout, not a Force-enhanced message. 

"Obi, you need help?" Ciara was obviously exhausted, but not so much that she would forget to ask. 

"No, I'm fine. Just need . . . to catch my breath." 

He turned then, to gaze out across the valley, and found that the view was even more spectacular from this vantage point than from the top of the cliff. On either side of the narrow niche on which he knelt, there were randomly-spaced, deep vertical fissures in the face of the stone, where pockets of rich, alluvial soil had accumulated over the years. In some, riots of incredibly lush foliage had erupted in great masses of thick-veined leaves, bearing trumpet-shaped blossoms of mauvy pink, shading to deep crimson, with a creamy picotee edging; others had been appropriated for nesting by the jewel-toned brendl birds that contributed the liquid beauty of their song to the perfection of the morning, as they went about their daily ablutions, steadily ignoring the Jedi presence in their midst. The fragrance of the waxy blooms that hung pendulous above his head, showering him with drops of crystal morning dew, was intoxicating, and the apprentice drew a deep breath, noting that his only regret was that his sketching material had been left behind. 

A glimpse of a comical face atop a pudgy body - the gold and cream striping of a pemawaki cub - as it slid down from its perch in the top of a velmian sapling, brought a wistful smile to the padawan's face, reflecting old, precious, suddenly painful memories. 

"I'll be up in a minute," he called, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, "if you guys think you can keep anyone else from jumping off a cliff." 

"Very funny, Kenobi," answered Garen, in the same vein of irony. "There are four of us (when there really should be five, ya know) and sixteen of them, and they all want to see everything at once." 

"I thought you were showing them the relpha fish." 

"We were, before D'rilla decided to turn bird-for-an-hour!" 

"OK. I'm coming up." 

There came then the sound of whispers exchanged, followed by a beat of silence. "Take your time, Chum," called Garen finally, softly, almost tenderly. "You've been working harder than any of us. Stop for a while, and smell the flowers." 

Obi-Wan knelt at the very edge of the ledge that overhung a huge, shadowed recess, where gleams of bright water grabbed stray beams of brilliance and tossed them into a pool of gloom. "Thanks. I'll be up shortly." 

But, as a shaft of sunlight cut through the layered mist and painted him with bands of warmth, he stretched out on the ledge and allowed himself a moment of pure hedonism. A pulse of Force energy directed toward his hand, and another to his knee, generated a soothing warmth, embellishing the comforting quality of the sunlight, as he let his mind wander. Briefly, he noted the touch of his link to his Master - very faint, very far away - and then, it was gone, closed off, blocked. Qui-Gon's ship had just leapt into hyperspace, and the link would remain dormant until he re-emerged. During that time of their lives when their bond had been vibrantly active and pulsing with exchanged energy and non-verbal communication, they had not been so completely isolated during hyper-jumps, but that time was long past. 

Now, he would feel nothing of his Master's presence until the jump ended, and there was no way of knowing when that would be. 

Somehow, there was a certain measure of comfort in the silence of the link, but he didn't think he wanted to explore the rationale behind that realization. Right now, he didn't think he wanted to explore much of anything. 

He adjusted his position on the ledge, allowing his feet to dangle over the void, and sprawling back into a natural cushion of lush, flowered vine that tumbled from a niche above his head. The foliage was thick and cool, and he curled into it, accepting the physical solace it offered, as he breathed deeply of the incredibly sweet serenity that settled around him. 

In moments, cradled and stroked by the tender embrace of the Force, he slept. 

**************** ******************* ********************* 

He returned to consciousness very gradually, reluctantly, and, somewhere deep in the reaches of his mind, he acknowledged that this was not normal for him. Though he had never been an early riser, normally eschewing the splendor of dawn for the comfort of stealing another retreat into downy slumber with a pillow clasped firmly over his head, he did usually waken quickly, once his defenses had been breached by the bright billow of awareness. 

Not like this. The temptation to burrow deeper into the softness of slumber was almost irresistible, and he was vaguely aware of floating in the grasp of a vast somnolence that dwarfed him and cradled him and sought to blunt the sharp glints of awakening. 

He nestled into the soft, yielding foliage beneath him, while reaching out through the Force, wanting - and not wanting - to cast off the tendrils of sleep. The innate time sense, a side-effect of Jedi training, assured him that he had not been asleep for long - a half-hour at most - but something else, some other sense that arose from the part of him that had always been so intimately connected to the Unifying Force, whispered that something around him had changed. Something fundamental. 

He stretched then, like a great catling, suddenly conscious of the decidedly non-Jedi appearance he must present, sprawled in his leafy bower. 

A visit to the Jedi Sanctuary, here in this beautiful place, was as close as Jedi students ever came to a vacation from their duties. Training schedules, while still prepared daily, tended to be flexible, to the point of mutability, in the event something better came along, and the customary Jedi costume was invariably one of the first casualties of relaxed demeanor. Thus it was that Obi-Wan, reveling in an overwhelming sense of comfort, was without cape or outer tunics, without surplice or sash; he wore old, comfortably worn leggings with rips at the knee, an undertunic that had seen better days, having lost sleeves and collar somewhere in its grungy past, his utility belt with his lightsaber attached - of course - and his oldest, most comfortable pair of boots. 

He was right; he didn't look Jedi. He looked . . . incredibly young and stunning, bathed in the gentle glow that managed to penetrate the delicate mist around him, a glow that struck coppery highlights in his hair, and illuminated the pearlescent quality of the skin of bare, well-muscled arms and torso, and an almost perfectly symmetrical face, touched by the pale stubble on his chin and cheeks that spoke of forgotten depilatory; soft light that contrasted pale shadow across the planes and angles of a well-sculpted body, and caused the golden sweep of thick lashes to flutter and lift, exposing eyes that blended strokes of emerald and sapphire and aquamarine. 

He squinted then, wondering at the bright spear of light that seemed to streak through the gentle fog and stab directly into his brain, so pure and brilliant that it was almost painful. 

He sat up quickly - reaching out - waving off that blinding, narrow beam of radiance and knew immediately that something had changed. Something around him was no longer as it had been. 

A brief extension of a tendril of Force sense revealed that his friends and their tiny charges were still clustered in the center of the plateau above him, all involved in some type of athletic contest generating much laughter and shrieks of excitement, and he knew a moment of regret that he had not rejoined them. But he closed his eyes again and felt the tug of a surprising lethargy, that seemed to draw him once more toward a realm of soft, pastel dreams. 

He surged upward, shaking off the wisps of mental fog that clung so insistently, and immediately felt the presence below him - the presence that _something_ in the incredible richness of concentrated life around him had _not_ wanted him to notice. He froze, sensing a thick, shifting darkness, a malevolence that struck deep into his consciousness causing his heart to stumble in its rhythm, a malevolence that was an affront to the light of his being, an affront to the celebration of life that existed all around him, an affront, yet - somehow, familiar. 

Out of habit, the apprentice traced the link that stretched out into infinity, toward the spot within the non-existence that was hyperspace now occupied by his Master, but the training bond was still silent and closed, and he could sense nothing. He sighed, then, and chided himself for being a foolish, needy child; one cold, dank sensation and he was grabbing for his Master's presence like an infant frightened by the darkness. 

He settled himself into his center and reached out again through his Jedi senses as he silently stretched out his body, to peer over the lip of the ledge on which he lay, to try to penetrate the thick gloom below. 

A huge silence seemed to engulf him, and he realized quickly that it was not a natural condition of the morning. There should have been birds wheeling overhead, and nestlings crying for nourishment. Small animals should have made their presence known along the mountain ridges and in the shadowy reaches of the forest. Insects should have droned in the rising warmth, adding their sibilance to the growing chorus of a new day. 

Yet the only sound that disturbed the perfect silence, beyond the muted roar of the great waterfalls, was the distant cacophony of children's voices and occasional trills of laughter. 

With exaggerated caution - much more, he thought, than was warranted by the situation - he scooted forward, twisting his body to snag an armful of woody vine as an anchor, and swung over the sharp edge of the tiny niche that supported him, scanning the depths below, with eyes attuned through the Force, to see more than simple vision could have seen. 

It was no simple matter to attain perfect stillness, dangling over the edge of a precipice, buffeted by thermal winds and updrafts created through natural rock formations and air currents tossed and twisted by the gargantuan force of the water's torrential downpour, but Obi-Wan managed it - almost. The mist was still swirling around him, and the shadows below, where the sun had not yet penetrated, were thick and filled with a chiaroscuro of shifting patterns. 

Nothing caught his eye, except . . . 

There was a darkness, within the shadowed gloom - deeper, furtive somehow - and yet still so familiar, though he could not have said why. He told himself that he could not be sure that there was truly anything there; that it might have been a fragment of dream, left over from his strange lethargy. It might even be some harmless nocturnal animal, hurrying to gain the security of its burrow before the full light of day dispelled the last lingering traces of night. 

It could have been any of those things, but he knew, somehow, that it wasn't; knew that he must investigate further, even though the Force was screaming in his mind, giving him an order that it had never given him before. 

It was telling him to run - and run - and not look back. 

And, more than anything, he wanted to obey - wanted to turn away from that valley of darkness, and run to the light - but he couldn't. For, as surely as he was being warned of the consequences of indulging his curiosity, he was also being told that there was grave danger here, and not just for him. The threat he sensed was real and huge and, if unchallenged, would grow and flourish and spread to encompass the people he loved best, his friends, his companions - his Master. He felt his breath hitch in his throat and knew that he was right. 

As much as he wished to simply turn away, he couldn't. Not until he knew more; not until he could at least identify the threat. 

He moved quickly, once his mind was made up, rationalizing that dawdling would only give him more opportunity to lose his courage. With a grace and strength reminiscent of the great catlings of Corellia, he sprang toward a foothold below him, before leaping downward again to reach a narrow, broken pathway winding among jagged rock formations. 

Ahead of him, framed now against the glimmer of falling water, a shadow - tall, heavily cloaked - paused before moving forward again, with a smooth, elegant gait. 

No animal, certainly, but a human, or a humanoid, and the metallic glint at waist level indicated that it was armed; that, in itself, was a rarity on the Sanctuary Moon, and would have been cause for concern, even without the quality of stealth exhibited in the figure's body language. 

Obi-Wan hesitated long enough to lock down heavy mental shielding; there was no way of knowing if the individual was Force sensitive and no reason to run an unnecessary risk of exposure. Then he hurried forward, as silent as the light that clung to him like a nimbus. 

The darkness grew thicker, and the mist more liquid as pursued and pursuer neared the bottom of the chasm, and the nature of the plantlife changed as well, becoming more lush and semi-tropical, and impeding progress by virtue of its rampant growth. Obi-Wan was forced to rely more heavily on his Force sense, as it became impossible to maintain eye contact with his target, but he was not alarmed. Instead, to his great surprise, he had begun to enjoy the execution of the chase - almost. 

He was, after all, in a location that the Jedi deemed one of the safest in the galaxy - a haven of security - and he was becoming slightly embarrassed now, by his earlier misgivings, observing ruefully that he must have been more exhausted than he had realized to react so emotionally. This, he was sure, would turn out to be nothing more than some casual liaison - a lover's tryst, perhaps - and he would hold his breath, having been led on a fool's errand, and try to slink away without ever revealing his presence, hoping to avoid embarrassment. He even considered breaking off the chase, convinced now that he had been victimized by his own over-active imagination, but not just yet. He would see it through, having come this far. 

It ended quickly, as he leapt across a narrow crevice that exuded a caustic, sulphurous odor, reminding him that there were huge, natural mineral springs deep beneath these mountains, springs that had been part of the attraction for those who sought - and obtained - permission to build their exclusive resort/retreats in the area. Once beyond the gap, the apprentice vaulted over a narrow ridge of broken rock, using the sheer wall on his right for balance and jerked to a halt as a voice emerged from the dark stillness, so clear and immediate that he was sure the speaker must be standing within touching distance. "I trust I haven't kept you waiting." It was immediately obvious, from the cold tone of the voice, that the speaker was actually completely uninterested in whether or not he had inconvenienced his counterpart. 

Obi-Wan's eyes widened, darting around him, seeking the source. 

Another voice spoke then. "No matter. I have time, in abundance." 

The apprentice looked up, to discover the source of the sound; just above his head there was an angular aperture in the rockface, roughly a meter in diameter, which was configured in such a way that it was obviously serving as an amplifier for those speaking from somewhere below. The padawan quickly boosted himself up to its lip, and stretched out with his senses to determine that the opening provided an entrance to a narrow corridor that sloped downward through the mass of stone. A quick mental exploration revealed that it was wide enough - just - to accommodate his body, if he could wriggle through a couple of bottlenecks, that it dog-legged slightly to the left, and opened onto a rough shelf overlooking a shallow cavern that was bisected by a narrow underground waterway, and that, though it had served, on occasion, as the residence of several varieties of wildlife, it was currently unoccupied. 

Headfirst, the apprentice pulled himself into the opening, and paused as the voices resumed their conversation. 

"I fail to see why this is necessary," said the one. "Coming here is a great risk, for me." 

"Come, come, my young friend," came the reply, very cultured, faintly amused. "Surely you concede that some arrangements are best made, face to face." 

The two fell silent then, and there was the crunch of footsteps on loose stone, as Obi-Wan pushed himself forward. When he reached the narrowest point of his passage, he found that the width of his shoulders would not quite clear the constriction. Finally, he was forced to extend his arms ahead of him, and bull his way through, with a bit of help from the Force, and a fine layer of skin left on the jagged rockface on his left. He felt the swell of fresh blood from the abrasion, but he ignored it, as the objects of his interest began to speak again. 

"I was assured that this wouldn't take long. The security arrangements we made were - necessarily - hasty, and I prefer not to push our luck." 

"Luck?" The amusement in that mellifluous voice was even more obvious than before. "Surely you have not come to believe in 'luck'? You amaze me. Your Master would be terribly displeased." 

The answer was a veritable snarl. "I have no Master." 

Two things happened then, simultaneously. Obi-Wan reached the end of the tunnel, and was able to look down on the tableau spread out below him, and the young man who had provided so much amusement for the owner of that elegant voice spun to face his companion, thus stepping into a pale ray of reflected light that illuminated a part of a singular profile. 

And - coincidentally - a third thing happened, from Obi-Wan's perspective. Reality blinked, and, try as he would, he could not force it to resume its former shape. 

It couldn't be. It could _not_ be. He was dead; he had to be dead. 

The padawan clung to a broken stone at the edge of the sliver of shelf some ten meters above the cavern's floor, clung so tightly that the sharp edge sliced into his palm, re-opening the wound he had acquired earlier, and crisscrossing it with a new one. But he did not notice, lost in a sing-song cadence in his mind. 

_I saw him die. He must be dead. He can't be here; he fell into that acid pit, and he died. He must be dead. He_ must _be dead._

But all the denial he could muster - all the rage and terror in his mind - could not allow him to unlearn what he had just learned. 

On the floor of the cavern below him, draped in the custom-fitted black garments that he had always favored, Xanatos of Telos prowled like a hungry predator, stalking its prey. There was no denying his identity; the apprentice had, after all, faced this most-hated of adversaries many times, reliving the actual physical confrontations - relatively few in number - in countless nightmares over the years, although no one else had ever known. Even Master Qui-Gon had never guessed the nature of the dreams that had sometimes wakened his apprentice, and Obi-Wan had never enlightened him. But he had long ago memorized everything that was Xanatos, including his signature stride, his arrogant demeanor, his natural grace that was almost feline in nature, right down to the curl of his lip when he was annoyed. As he was now. 

Obi-Wan forced himself to release his death grip on the stone that continued to slice into his hand, and closed his eyes, seeking focus. 

Xanatos. He hardly knew how to react, what to think, what to do. But he did know what he must not do; he must not be caught. He inhaled deeply, opening himself to the Force, accepting whatever guidance it might provide. He was vaguely surprised to realize that he could - almost - detect a sense of outrage within it, a nuance of reproof. It had not wanted him to come here, and he was bewildered by the faint traces of anger within its customary warmth. 

Then something apparently conceded that, as long as he was already here, he might as well learn what he could learn. 

He opened his eyes as Xanatos began to speak again, and managed not to gasp as the Telosian moved further forward, fully exposing his face. It was Xanatos; no doubt about that, but he was no longer what he had been when he had taken that final plunge into oblivion. 

Obi-Wan had never mentioned it to anyone; especially not to his Master, as he had no desire to cause Qui-Gon further pain, and it really made no difference anyway. But he had always believed that Xanatos had been the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and he had, since then, always judged himself against that memory of perfection, and found himself wanting by comparison, always acknowledging that he would never be as tall, as graceful, as elegant - as beautiful. 

The dark prince of Telos was still beautiful, but it was beauty defiled. The acid had done its work quite well, but only on one side of his face. The left side was a scarred, deformed ruin, with a rudimentary nostril, a stub of an ear, and an eye socket - probably empty - concealed beneath a silk patch. The right side, on the other hand, was as exquisite, as perfect as it had always been, and Obi-Wan could not suppress a stab of sympathy, realizing instinctively that it would be worse to be constantly reminded of the beauty that was lost by having to gaze at its remnants, than to have had it obliterated altogether. 

The apprentice reinforced his shields, and moved to find a better vantage point, careful to remain out of sight. He needed to see . . .

"Have you gone over the outline we provided for you?" As the other man finished posing his question, he turned to hear Xanatos' response, and Obi-Wan felt the icy chill of recognition grip his heart. 

Dooku. The legendary Count Dooku - one of the lost twenty. Though not, obviously, actually lost, but lost to the Jedi. 

Obi-Wan stared, mouth agape, and tried to make sense of what made no sense. 

Dooku had renounced his ties to the Temple, it was true, but even the youngest padawan had learned that he had done so because of philosophical differences with the direction taken by the Council in recent years. He had been recognized and honored as a political idealist who could no longer be silent in his disagreement with Jedi policies, but there had never been any question of his moral rectitude. 

Dooku was a Jedi legend. 

And Dooku was here, in a hidden cavern, engaging in a clandestine meeting with a fallen Jedi. 

It was like having Master Windu stand to address the Council and break into a rousing rendition of a Klatinka drinking song; it was mind-boggling. 

"I have indeed," said Xanatos, with a baleful glare, "and I should demand additional compensation for having to deal with Neimoidians. Disgusting creatures!" 

"But very useful," observed Dooku, "and in position to provide exactly what we need, without any troublesome moral questions. It's always such a simple pleasure to deal with creatures motivated by nothing but profit, don't you think?" 

"Has the target world been chosen yet?" asked Xanatos, still pacing. "I'm eager to be done with my part in this." 

"Not very Jedi of you," observed Dooku, smiling thinly when he saw the rage flare in Xanatos' face. "Even non-Jedi . . . even ex-Jedi must sometimes appreciate the value of patience. This will not be a quick fix process, my friend. Preparation must be meticulous, if we are to succeed." 

Xanatos paused then, gazing down at something in the dark pool at his feet. "But ultimately, the Jedi will fall. I have your word on that, don't I?" 

"The Jedi," replied Dooku, with absolute conviction, "and the Republic, and the galaxy will lie at our feet, for the claiming." 

Xanatos smiled. "It hardly seems possible. That they should fall - _he_ should fall - and I should survive to see it." 

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, barely able to draw breath, knowing he must hear it all, but barely able to contain his anguish. He shifted slightly and . . . 

"Oh, how unfortunate!" 

The new voice came from the entrance to the cavern, as a figure draped completely in black stepped out of the shadows, one skeletal hand extended to project a pale azure band of crackling energy, which focused on the body of a slender Jedi padawan as it tumbled from its place of concealment. 

Obi-Wan did not feel the impact as his body slammed into the ground, having lost consciousness under the unexpected power of the Sith weapon. He had been so intent on maintaining the shields between himself and the two figures below him, that he had failed to notice the new arrival. It was a mistake not uncommon among young Jedi, but it would prove to be more costly than he could possibly have imagined. 

His period of unconsciousness was brief, and he awakened to find himself flat on his back, gazing up into faces that stared at him with undisguised glee; he was unable to move, as he was secured by bands of dark Force energy that he knew he could not break. 

"You'll never get away with it," he snarled, mustering as much bluster as he could. 

But none of them looked the least bit concerned. 

Xanatos actually smiled at him, and knelt at his side, one hand reaching out to grasp Obi-Wan's chin. "My, my, young Kenobi, you have turned out rather nicely, haven't you? Tell me, are you as gifted as I was, or do you still suffer by comparison? Does he love you, as he loved me?" 

Obi-Wan wanted to spit his defiance at the fallen Jedi, but he couldn't quite suppress the sharp pain that tore though him. 

Xanatos grabbed his padawan braid, and tugged sharply. "He doesn't, does he? Poor little padawan. Poor neglected little padawan." 

"I am neither poor, little, nor neglected," said the young Jedi, through clenched teeth, "and I'll thank you to take your filthy hands off me." 

Dooku broke into soft chortles. "It appears that the cub has claws." 

The third member of the unholy triumvirate stepped forward then, and pulled back the dark hood that obscured most of his face. 

"Senator Palpatine," breathed Obi-Wan, recognizing the features instantly, but also noting a difference from the man's normal appearance. There was a grotesque pallor, an oily excrescence that seemed to cling to the senator's face; the features were the same, but the identity was different, twisted somehow, submerged in malevolence. 

The senator from Naboo, an individual who frequently visited the Jedi Temple, looked down into the youth's face, and dredged up a sympathetic sigh, which was almost convincing. "I really am sorry about this, Young Kenobi. I had hoped to avoid any interference in your training, until the timing was right. You would have been an exquisite addition to my entourage." 

Obi-Wan struggled a bit against the invisible bonds that held him, even though he knew it was useless. "I am a Jedi, and I will always be Jedi." 

Palpatine smiled. "Now that, Little One, is where you're wrong. It's a pity that you must be destroyed, but you've heard too much. I can't risk all our plans, because of a reluctance to take the life of one boy. You sit too close to the centers of power in the Jedi Order, and your mental strength might very well allow you to resist a memory wipe. I truly am sorry." 

The apprentice sighed, closed his eyes, and found his center instantly. 

He had always known - as every Jedi always knew - that death might come at any time; he would face it in a manner which would have made his Master proud. His only regret would be that Qui-Gon would almost certainly never know. Despite the fact that this moon was a Jedi sanctuary, it was also largely untamed wilderness, and a body would be easy to entrust to the not-so-tender mercies of the carnivores in the forest. 

He opened his eyes then, and gazed up at the Senator with complete serenity. 

Again, Dooku chuckled. "Magnificent little bastard, isn't he?" 

Palpatine merely nodded, and stretched out his hand, but Xanatos was quicker, interposing himself between the dark lord and the boy's body. "Let me have him," he suggested. 

"It's too risky," replied Palpatine, the ice in his eyes proclaiming that he did not like having his decisions questioned. 

"I can assure you, there'll be no risk," said the Prince of Telos with a smirk. "My Force researchers have been working with a team of Nightsisters on Dathomir, and we've been very successful in combining memory suppression methods with their procedures for altering identity patterns. He might yet prove to be valuable to us, as a hostage, perhaps." 

Palpatine turned to study the face of the Telosian, and it was obvious that he was inclined to distrust Xanatos' motives, but, in the end, he simply nodded. 

For his part, Xanatos looked down and felt exultation flood though him as he recognized the first flare of panic rising in the young Jedi's eyes. Obviously, the boy was prepared to die; what Xanatos was proposing was, however, unthinkable. 

"When I finish with him," said the Telosian, kneeling again to cup Obi-Wan's face with rough fingers, "he'll be as docile as a catling cub, and he won't know the meaning of the word, Jedi." 

"No." It was barely a whisper, torn from the boy against his will. 

"No?" echoed Xanatos. "Do you want to ask me something, Little One? Do you want to beg for your life? Do you want me to return you to the shelter of your Master's arms? Beg for me, Little Pup, and I'll consider it." 

"No," replied Obi-Win through clenched teeth, "you won't. You just want me to grovel at your feet, and I won't do that; it would be futile. You're enjoying this." 

Xanatos smiled. "Bright kid. You bet I'm enjoying it. The only thing I'd enjoy more would be seeing your Master's face when he learns that you're gone. And I'm going to make absolutely sure that he never, ever finds you." 

"He loved you," snapped the padawan. "All he ever did was love you, and you repaid him by rejecting everything he believed in." 

"Well," drawled the Telosian, "that's not exactly all he ever did, is it? He also tried to kill me." 

Obi-Wan sighed and gave up. There was, he knew, nothing he could say or do to change what was going to happen, to him or to his Master. 

_I am sorry, my Master. May the Force be with you, always._

Serenity and the warmth that was the Force surged to envelope him completely, and the three Force sensitives around him stirred uneasily, none ever having experienced such a swell of metaphysical light. It would change nothing, but it would serve a purpose, nonetheless. They would remember it and find cause to wonder, from time to time, what they might have set in motion. 

Within the core of Obi-Wan's mind, he heard the lovely music that he had been hearing all his life, the harmony that only a precious few Jedi were ever privileged to hear. The Force serenaded him with its loving melody, and he was deep within its embrace when his consciousness was taken from him. 

************ *************** ************* 

Qui-Gon Jinn knelt in meditation, as the sun slipped below the horizon, and the last flash of brilliance reached out and bathed Coruscant in a flare of amber. All was still; nothing impeded on his concentration. Yet his focus was uncertain; he could not find his center. 

It was rare these days, when he could. 

The solitude around him was total. 

For so long, he had hungered for solitude, for the space to dwell on what he had lost. 

Now he finally had what he had thought he wanted, only to realize that some losses are simply too great to be borne. 

He sighed, and rose to his feet, noting the stiffness in his back and shoulders, and wondering, automatically, if his padawan might be persuaded to massage . . . 

His breath caught in his throat; too many things were 'automatic'. Too many things had to be unlearned. 

It was too quiet, as he moved into the common room of the quarters he had shared with Obi-Wan for so many years. Too quiet, and the closed door to the padawan bedroom seemed to mock him. 

He knew it was time, knew what had to be done, but he could not bring himself to step forward and open that door. It should not be left to impersonal droids to pack away the personal effects within that small room, but the Master didn't think he would ever be able to manage it. His one attempt to enter there had ended when he had discovered Obi-Wan's senior padawan beads in a cup on the bureau, prompting him to understand that the boy had chosen not to wear the badges of his new rank, and it required no deep thought to figure out why. The beads would have had no meaning for the boy, unless they had been affixed to his braid by his Master's fingers. 

He had not opened that door since racing from the room, leaving the beads where he'd found them. He could not bear to touch them. 

And now - now - time was moving inexorably forward, ignoring his desperate need to grab it and hold it and deny its passage. 

Mace Windu had come to him earlier, and even the great dour Master had barely been able to speak the words. 

The search had been suspended. In six lunar cycles, no trace had been found; not a single clue had been revealed. 

Obi-Wan was gone, as if he had never existed, and the Jedi, spread more and more thinly as crises multiplied across the galaxy, could no longer spare the manpower necessary for the search. 

Officially, the case would remain open, pending the discovery of new information, but it was only a formality, and everyone knew it. 

One day - probably within a matter of a year or two - his name would be removed, quietly and permanently, from the list of active Jedi, and he would become one of the many who had dwelt for a while within these walls, without ever carving a permanent place for himself, except within the hearts of those who loved him best. 

He would be forgotten by all but the select few, who would never forget, and, on some level, never forgive the callousness that allowed him to be discarded so casually. 

But there was no other way, and they would all come to accept it eventually. 

Qui-Gon lowered himself into the disreputable old arm chair that fit his rangy frame so well, and allowed himself a few brief shards of memory. This chair, for instance, had dwarfed Obi-Wan's slender body, and, according to his endless complaining, 'poked him' in all the wrong places; that, of course, had happened before Tahl had been lost and the darkness had closed in on them. 

The Master understood now, that he had dwelled in relentless shadow for a long time after Tahl died - a shadow that allowed him to abandon his padawan to a level of loneliness that no child should ever have to inhabit. He understood it now; now that it didn't matter any more. 

On the table in front of him was the sketch pad that had been recovered from the cliff top on the day Obi-Wan had disappeared. Ciara had brought it to him, and simply put it in his hands, unable to speak; she had never accused him, never voiced the resentment she surely must feel, and, being true Jedi, she never would. But she would also never forgive him, any more than he would ever forgive himself. 

He had looked at the sketches - once - and never been able to bring himself to even touch the pad again. Every one of the drawings in the front of the book, every single one, was a study of some part of Qui-Gon's body - his face, his profile, his hands, his torso in the midst of a training kata. Every single one. And every one was also a cry for understanding, for acceptance - a cry that had gone unanswered. 

He closed his eyes and remembered that day. And remembered how he had known - immediately - for, impossibly, incredibly, in violation of every rule of common sense and most of the tenets of Force discipline, he had heard Obi-Wan's last message. 

_I am sorry, my Master. May the Force be with you, always._

The message had come to him - deep within the desolation that was hyperspace - and with it had come such a deep, crippling sense of sadness that he had known immediately. 

He had been on his way home, and had realized, somewhere in the course of the journey that had taken him across the galaxy, that 'home' had come to mean the place where his padawan awaited his return. 

The irony was not lost on him. 

For Qui-Gon Jinn, no place would ever be 'home' again. 

~~~~~~~~~~ FINI - ~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
